


Dust Bowl Refugees

by katherine_tag



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Australia, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:38:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine_tag/pseuds/katherine_tag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breaking down on the Plenty Highway in the middle of the Australian Outback was never in the plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust Bowl Refugees

**Author's Note:**

> Here's [a picture](http://forum.australia4wd.com/index.php?/blog/132/entry-1078-outback-road-plenty-highway-ntqld/) of the part of the Plenty Highway they get stuck on, for the curious.
> 
> Title is from an old Woody Guthrie song.

They had just passed the border of Northern Territory and Queensland, 15 hours east of Alice Springs, when it happened. Eames's eyes felt gritty, and despite the air conditioning, his hands were sweaty on the steering wheel.

Arthur, who had been dozing in the passenger seat, twitched and sat up. "Stop," he said. "Stop driving."

The tone of his voice made Eames pull over without argument. They sat in silence, listening to the ticking of the engine. A thin thread of steam escaped with a hissing sound from under the bonnet. Eames tapped the engine gauge, which was still hanging at cold, despite the fact that the temperature outside had climbed steadily to 40 degrees. "Bloody hell," he said.

"Shit," Arthur said, and got out of the car. 

The car, a Honda Civic hatchback from the 80s, notable only for the fact that it had all wheel drive, was not really meant for a trek across the Australian Outback. Arthur had picked it up in Alice Springs, and Eames had failed to ask how, exactly. He also didn't ask why they were taking the Plenty Highway - and highway was generous moniker, considering the road consisted of a dirt track through the outback, barely signposted - instead of the lovely, civilised, _sealed_ Stuart Highway to Brisbane.

When the job had gone spectacularly south, Arthur had said, "Come with me," and Eames had shrugged, scrapped his exit strategy, and followed. He couldn't explain to himself, exactly, why he had done it, except that _it had seemed like a good idea at the time_ , which really. He should know better by now.

He opened the door and climbed out, squinting in the sun. The road had a generous smattering of pebbles in the red, sandy soil, which coated his shoes with puffs of dust as he walked around the front of the car. "What's wrong with it?" he asked.

Arthur had already propped the bonnet up and was frowning at the engine, which was currently obscured by white steam escaping from what Eames assumed was the radiator. "Don't know yet," he said shortly. "It has to cool down before I can look at it." In deference to the heat, Arthur had discarded his jacket on the back seat hours ago. His sleeves were rolled up above his elbows and two buttons were undone, revealing the sharp planes of his collarbones. Eames watched as a bead of sweat curled down Arthur's neck to be absorbed by his undershirt.

Of course he knew exactly why he had come with Arthur: Arthur had asked.

The sun was brutal. Eames shaded his eyes and turned a slow circle, but he didn't see anything but the road, stretching out from east to west, and flat scrubland, the grasses coated with a film of the ever present red dust. There was no shade but the shadow thrown by the car in the afternoon sun.

"We need cover," Eames said. The sun felt stronger in Australia, he had discovered, burning with an intensity he hadn't experienced before, even in Africa. He could see the fair skin across Arthur's nose already starting to turn pink.

Instead of answering, Arthur sighed and walked around to the back of the car, opening the hatch and rummaging around. He lifted out a plastic container before slamming the hatch closed again and climbing into the passenger seat. Instead of sitting in the driver's seat, which was in full sun, Eames crawled into the back, scooting to the far side of the car to hug what little shade was to be had.

"We'll need to stay hydrated," Arthur said. "It'll take at least a half an hour for the engine to cool down enough for me to look at it." He unscrewed the lid from the canister before taking an awkward drink.

"Won't we need to save that for the car?" Eames asked. He grabbed the container as Arthur twisted around in his seat to shove it toward him.

"We have another in the back," Arthur said. His mouth was wet.

Eames averted his eyes and took a drink, wrinkling his nose at the warm plastic taste. The cooler air from the air conditioning was fast dissipating from the interior of the car. He rolled down his window, then leaned across to do the same on the other side. Slumping back, his knees pressed into the back of Arthur's seat, Eames wished he could stretch out, but that would have meant putting his feet in the sun.

"Guess we've got time for a kip," he said.

Arthur made a noncommittal humming noise. He was still turned sideways, his knees folded up and his feet resting on the gear shift. His arm was curled around the headrest, and his nails had dirt under them. "It's another 300 kilometers before Boulia, I think," he said. "Five hours or so. There's an airport there."

This was the first mention Arthur had made mention of a plane, and Eames wondered if flying out of Boulia to Brisbane had always been the plan, or if it was a new development. To be fair, he hadn't ever asked if Arthur even _had_ a plan. 

Eames unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way and draped it over his head. His vest was damp with sweat. Neither of them had showered since they had left Adelaide. He felt sticky, like his skin had a thin film on it from too many hours on the road, too many fish and chips stands, too many cups of lukewarm tea.

He could hear Arthur sigh and then the intriguing sound of cloth rustling. Eames closed his eyes against the temptation to stare. He must have fallen asleep, because the sound of the car door opening woke him. He dragged the shirt off his head and cracked his neck.

Arthur had the bonnet of the car up again. His shirt, a tasteful button down with subdued blue and green stripes, was crumpled in the driver's seat. Eames unstuck himself from the seat with a groan, and got out of the car.

Arthur was wrist deep in the engine, frowning and biting his lip. His thin undershirt was sticking to his skin. Eames could see the bottom of an old Marine Corps tattoo on his bicep, a globe imposed over a stylized anchor. There was already a streak of grease on his forehead. Eames tried not to find it sexy and failed miserably.

"I think we got lucky," Arthur said. "Looks like just the radiator hose was loose."

Eames peered over the edge into the guts of the engine. It looked like a mess of tubes, fans, and moving parts to him. "Can you fix it?" he asked.

"I just need some duct tape," Arthur said, grinning. "We'll have to drive without a/c, though," he added as he walked to the back of the car to rummage in his suitcase.

"Perish the thought," Eames said. "Look at me, I'm a wilting English flower."

Arthur gave him a wry glance as he came back to the front of the car, a roll of duct tape in his grubby hand. There was engine grease smeared on the front of his grey trousers. It was just like Arthur, Eames thought, to ruin his suit for a car worth half as much.

Eames lit a cigarette and walked a little ways off, scuffing his toes in the reddish sand. He turned when he heard the bonnet slam shut.

"Come on, Eames," Arthur called. "We've got a lot of driving left to do."

"Especially when we have to stay under 50 kilometers an hour," Eames muttered to himself, but he ground his cigarette under his heel and ambled back to the car.

Arthur was leaning on the passenger side door with his legs crossed. He was using Eames's shirt to wipe the engine grease off his hands.

"Oi," Eames said. "That's Armani you're ruining."

"I know," Arthur said. He had a little smile on his face, three parts smug and one part secretive. His skin was pink and slick from the heat, his hair had sprung free of the pomade hours ago, and he looked a delicious mess.

Eames took the shirt out of Arthur's hands and used it to swipe at the streak of grease on Arthur's forehead. He wondered if what they were doing could be construed as flirting, standing so close together he could smell Arthur's sweat and the last, faint traces of his cologne. He wondered if he could kiss Arthur without getting a Glock stuck into his ribs for his trouble. 

Arthur was still smiling. He leaned to close the last few inches between them and pressed his lips to Eames's, as if he could read Eames's thoughts like they were written all over his face.

Dropping the shirt, Eames put his hands on Arthur's hips and fell into the kiss, slotting their bodies together as neatly as if they belonged that way. Arthur pulled him even closer with a hand on the back of Eames's neck. They broke apart too soon, gasping in the sun.

"Boulia," Arthur said, and licked at the sweat on Eames's neck.

Eames shuddered.

"Has many facilities," Arthur continued, "besides an airport."

"Like a hotel?" Eames asked. His voice was rough.

"Very good, Mr. Eames," Arthur said. He kissed Eames again, quickly, as if to punctuate his sentence.

Eames took a step back, shoving his hands in his pockets. He could feel a grin creeping over his face, a perfect match for Arthur's. "Right then," he said. "It's your turn to drive."


End file.
